


Extant

by MonsterTesk



Series: Doornails and Daisies [4]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alcohol, Existential Angst, M/M, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:43:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterTesk/pseuds/MonsterTesk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thought made flesh or flesh made sin. Raylan can't decide. It matters little either way with blood crusted under his fingernails like coal dust and the lingering scent of gunpowder on his hand whenever he raises his glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extant

This is, he thinks, the very base of life; some paroxysm of self and flesh seized together in one euphoric overture. As one, it is taken and swallowed like a jagged pill, abrupt and undiluted. A total abandon of soul and wit in the face of something sharper, cleaner, and much more benign than the confines of mock culture and the paradigm of society. All of which are, simply put, pretentious five dollar words for the way a man can wail, lost unto himself, in grief, in love, in the dying of all happy memories at a sight so far beyond himself and yet- and yet- so common as to be a thing everyone will inevitably experience. 

It's probably the booze making him think this way, feel this way. Or maybe one last parting gift from a being so at opposition to himself he seemed more a needed anachronism than a living, breathing, talking man. Thought made flesh or flesh made sin. Raylan can't decide. It matters little either way with blood crusted under his fingernails like coal dust and the lingering scent of gunpowder on his hand whenever he raises his glass. 

_Once upon a time there was an asshole..._ he thinks to himself then laughs into his whiskey so hard it bubbles around his mouth like rubbing alcohol turned milk. It stings the sensitive insides of his nose and wets more his chin than his tongue. 

He's not plagued by thoughts of good riddance or so much haunted by a life lost. More like disappointment in wasted potential. There was always potential in the sharp white of Boyd's teeth as he grinned in welcome. Raylan had often oscillated like a fan between two golden outcomes as if all those messy variables in between could be dealt with swiftly and accordingly. As if his oscillation could churn the soured milk of once-was into buttery _possibility._   

He'd thought of it, often, when alone in the dark of his bed, what could have been. He'd start out, whiskey-flushed, with the more palatable one, the one where Boyd turns his coat white on the inside, lined with good will and mostly benign endeavors, whispering where no one can witness the secrets of the criminal world, tipping and turning for Raylan into something much less than he could be, much smaller than he could ever be happy with. For Raylan. Always for Raylan. But then... But then when the drink had set in fully and Raylan could allow himself the forgiveness of such thoughts in the judgemental light of morning, this Boyd, his Boyd, would lean in farther still, would hiss not secrets of laws broken and plans designing but fleshy secrets, wet secrets, secrets as red as Boyd's tongue, as plush and inviting as his lips, as daring and dangerous as the cut of his eyes when he  _looks_ at Raylan. 

These are the ones he needs half a handle to let loose, to unlatch that stolen paddock in the back of his mind where frustration and annoyance turn into butter at the sound of Boyd's voice. It's a lush green field dotted with small mounds the shape and size of Boyd's thighs spread wide. Something soft and inviting for Raylan to lay between, to rest against and graze calloused hands over. Where the wind hushes him with dry lips against his contrary disposition. Where he, himself, can become pliant and welcoming to the slow, steady rush of a river shaped and felt in an approximation of halcyon lust. Here he can skinny dip in a body of water that parts in welcome like the arms of a long lost friend and close behind him the way only a lover's arms can when he's buried deep inside them. 

It's all abstract garbage anyway- more words Boyd has pressed into his mind by sheer osmosis of personality than anything indigenous to Raylan's mind- and doesn't change a damn thing. The man, the self-made myth, the already-fading legend, is gone and dead. Soon to be buried in the place he could never muster the courage to escape. And Raylan-

Raylan is left, as he always is by Boyd, with a headache between his eyes, a sour taste on his tongue, and bereft of what he's never allowed himself to want. 

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no excuse for this aside from wanting to write pretentiously.


End file.
